


(i)

by honey_fig



Series: tumblr collection [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble Collection, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intoxication, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 19:24:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11065536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_fig/pseuds/honey_fig
Summary: He thought back to the first year he knew Alex on this day; that was the messiest year. Alexander was fine one moment, then everything happened at once. There was no buildup, there was no teardown, but there was the faint, neat lines littered across Alexander’s skin that held their stance as evidence for his weaknesses.The year after was a little better—there was the meltdown, but Alexander seemed to have more control over himself this time. There were tears, there were delusions, but there was no bloodshed. He fell asleep that night crying softly while John hummed him into comfort.So he had to say, this year was their best on record.





	(i)

**Author's Note:**

> [ a tumblr user Asked: Can I request Lams [...] with 10. “I did what I had to do” 25. “Why shouldn’t they help themselves after the way they’ve been treated?” 49. “You’re drunk.” “No, you’re just blurry.” ? :D ]

 

 

“Hey, man, why shouldn’t he help himself after what he’s been through?”

John Laurens’ voice was condescending, and effective. He had to be; for a man of such small stature and popularity, he needed to be well-known when he had an opinion. And this particular opinion was his boyfriend’s right to get drunk on his late mother’s birthday.

Others such as Lafayette and Mulligan, of course, weren’t so keen on the already-unstable Alexander wringing out sorrows he’d owned no closure to with hard liquors John had swiped from his father’s ample alcohol supply, but six shots in to Alex’s suppression of what certainly would have been a meltdown, they didn’t really have much of a say in the situation anymore.

“I dunno if this qualifies for helping himself,” Hercules argued, though his voice was calm. “I mean, if I didn’t know any better I’d kind of assume he was dead, y’know?”

This prompted the three to look into the living room where the man himself was slumped in an armchair, and upon first glance seemed unconscious. A second look, however, would prove that he was conscious, mumbling nonsense to himself occasionally. It would have been worrisome to someone who didn’t know Alexander well enough to know that it was nigh impossible to get him to stop talking.

John sighed and abandoned the chastisement from his friends, instead walking with a sort of questionable sashay towards his boyfriend.

“Alex? We should get you to bed,” he said softly, putting a hand on his back. The only response he earned was a dismayed grumble from the inebriated. “Dude, you’re drunk.”

Alexander looked up from his seat with a glare—not the kind you’d see on a man with the sort of pent-up resentment someone such as himself might harbor. It was more a look you’d see on a man stumbling into sunlight for the first time in years. “Nah…’m not drunk, you’re just blurry,” he mumbled with the half-smile John had fallen in love with a couple years before.

Alexander wasn’t dumb; he knew he was far past the point of drunk. He just wanted to put up a fight. Even in such an intoxicated state, he was playfully resilient towards his boyfriend (who Alexander was well aware was much too small to carry him—perhaps that was the reasoning between Mulligan’s sudden arrival).

John laughed at the drunken logic, running his fingers through Alex’s hair. It was thick, and rather soft, which made John wonder when he had found the time that day to shower. “Please?” he asked, wanting his boyfriend to be safe in bed. This prompted a loud, dramatic sigh from the older boy complete with an emphasized eyeroll.

“Fine,” Alexander huffed, as if he’d just been requested to do a boring task.

It took quite a few (notably hilarious) moments before he was out of the chair, swaying a bit as he leaned on Mulligan for support and soon replaced the larger man with the wall. He walked towards the bedroom slowly, dragging his upper half down the wall for some godforsaken reason.

As soon as he entered the bedroom, Alexander sprawled across the bed in his street clothes, asleep in record time.

John shut the door, leaving Alexander by himself and looking at the two larger men in front of him.

“John, why did you even suggest he get drunk?” Lafayette asked him softly, clearly worried about the sleeping Alexander. Of course, he would be. They hadn’t seen this before like John had.

He thought back to the first year he knew Alex on this day; that was the messiest year. Alexander was fine one moment, then everything happened at once. There was no buildup, there was no teardown, but there was the faint, neat lines littered across Alexander’s skin that held their stance as evidence for his weaknesses.

The year after was a little better—there was the meltdown, but Alexander seemed to have more control over himself this time. There were tears, there were delusions, but there was no bloodshed. He fell asleep that night crying softly while John hummed him into comfort.

So he had to say, this year was their best on record. Throughout Alex’s drunkenness, he never showed any despair as he usually did. Instead, three shots in, he began telling John all about her; what she looked like, what she loved, the little things she did for him, only the good things. John had never before heard anything about the fabled Rachel Faucette, aside from gruesome details of her untimely demise he had stumbled upon in Alexander’s writing.

“I don’t know,” he finally said, shrugging as he couldn’t explain the vulnerability in the moment. “I guess I just did what I had to do. For both of us.”

 

 


End file.
